


That Mouth

by Sherlycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Honey, M/M, PWP, Post-Season 4, Sex, maybe a teeny tiny bit of plot, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9955784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlycakes/pseuds/Sherlycakes
Summary: John has a weakness: That mouth.And you know exactly whose mouth he's talking about, don't you?Of course you do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever attempt at anything PWP, apparently 2100 words of it. I hope you readers will find it at least a bit sexy. I appreciate your comments, if you care to leave them. 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked. All mistakes are my own.

That mouth.

John felt a flicker of desire run up his spine. Unfortunately, he and Sherlock were currently at a crime scene. A double murder from his initial glance. He knew it was incredibly inappropriate to be thinking such thoughts here, even though (probably) no one had any idea what he was thinking. He was in his usual place, standing close enough to his detective to hear him if needed yet far enough away not to be a distraction. 

But, dammit. 

Sherlock was currently resting his thumb against the same full bottom lip John had drawn his tongue across not twenty minutes earlier, coaxing that mouth open for a hot-as-hell kiss which should have led to more. Except “Case, John!” had come calling and now? Well now, here they were.

So it absolutely wasn’t his fault his mind hadn’t reset from shagging to murder just yet.

It was however, entirely his fault he knew that lovely, lovely mouth so well.

\-------------------------------------------

Put simply, after the death of Mary and the shock of discovering Sherlock’s sister, both men had settled back into Baker Street knowing it was where they were meant to be. They assisted Mrs. Hudson with the repair of the flat and Sherlock welcomed Rosie, telling John in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t have them living anywhere else.

Full stop. 

When the last of the plaster dust had been wiped away, many late night conversations occurred, voices pitched low so as not to wake a sleeping toddler. Conversations that began with “I’m sorry” and “I’ll never leave you again” and “It’s always been you.”

John was the one who first pulled them close together, his cheeks streaked with tears, and pressed his lips firmly to Sherlock’s. It was essentially a chaste kiss, lasting not more than a few, delicious seconds. But it still made clear all that John hoped they could have, what he _knew_ they deserved. He hugged Sherlock tightly afterwards. and rested his head on his detective’s chest. 

It wasn’t long after that kiss when John took Sherlock to bed for the first time. And it was there in Sherlock’s bedroom that John realized he’d never get enough of that mouth. It turned out Sherlock used his mouth in bed exactly like he used his other four senses at crime scenes- to observe, deduce, and examine evidence.

Only on that night (and frankly all the others since), _John_ had been the subject of his full attention, his body the evidence. 

Oh, fuck.

Sherlock had spent long minutes tasting as much of John’s skin as he could, dragging his tongue in tiny licks all over his doctor’s body, noting what made him moan with pleasure. He kissed whatever body part was closest, whether arm, abdomen, cock, sacrum, or even John’s calves which shouldn’t have been arousing but was really quite fine.

Sherlock sucked bruises along John’s collarbones, afterwards soothing each with his clever tongue. He suckled John’s fingers when two of them sought entrance into his mouth, soaking them with saliva so that John could prepare him.

Later when John pressed so, so, slowly into Sherlock for the first time, he eagerly sought that demanding mouth. It had already become an addiction, sipping at Sherlock’s desire for him, feeling his tongue sliding fervently against his own as he thrust deeper, harder, into him.

It was apparent to John that it would never be enough. He’d never have his fill of Sherlock or that sexy, incredible mouth.

As they neared climax, John couldn’t stop smearing his lips across Sherlock’s. He wanted to feel his gasps up close, ghosting across his own lips. When Sherlock shuddered and shook beneath him, John indulged in the sweetness of his mouth during the throes of orgasm, letting the feel of it push him over the edge, too.

Ever after, it was understandable if John found himself quite distracted by Sherlock’s mouth.

Occasionally.

Well...frequently.

Alright, _alright_. On a damn near constant basis.  

Of course, Sherlock knew this. And John’s posh boy made sure to exploit that weakness whenever possible.

\------------------------------------------

When Grandmère sent Sherlock a sampling of her latest honey harvest, he wasted no time before teasing John with it. Hell, he barely waited past hearing Rosie’s first sleep-deep breaths for the night through the monitor.  

A trio of jars was placed ceremoniously on the kitchen table, plainly in John’s view, while Sherlock rummaged through the cupboards for his handmade wooden honey dipper.

“She only harvests when she knows the bees have been visiting the lavender fields behind the manor, John. This will be _exquisite_ ,” Sherlock purred.

Once located, he held the utensil in the air with a flourish. Then he sat down at the table, purposely facing John, clad only in his deep blue dressing gown. Each jar was lovingly opened, lids placed gently to the side.

John knew what was about to happen. At least...he _hoped like hell_ it was going to happen.

And oh Christ, yes. It happened.

Sherlock slowly lowered the honey dipper into the first jar of honey. As he removed it, he caught John’s blue eyes and whispered, “Watch me.” The glistening dipper was then placed right in the center of his cupid’s bow pout and lazily rolled side to side.

To the left. To the right. 

The effect was stunning. John looked at those honey-glossed lips and very nearly bolted out of his chair to capture them for himself.

Pale pink lips, shiny with honey, parted slightly as Sherlock’s tongue peeked out to savor the sweet liquid. His eyes fell closed in unconcealed ecstasy. “Mmm, John. This batch is one of her finest in years.”

John took a moment to ease the pressure on his rapidly growing erection, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans while Sherlock was otherwise occupied with his first taste of the honey. He pressed his palm against his cock and sighed shakily in relief.

As if on cue, Sherlock’s grey-green eyes fluttered open and swiftly noted John’s open fly. One corner of that sultry mouth quirked up. “Oh, my dear John. I’m not finished yet.”

The second jar was employed. A drizzle of honey made its way to Sherlock’s exposed wrist. Then he brought it up to his mouth and drew the pointed tip of his tongue through the glimmering stripe.

John let out a low moan at the sight. He also gave up any semblance of appearing unaffected. Instead he stood up and shed both his jeans and pants promptly. His erection stood out proudly as he collapsed back into his chair, too aroused to even bother taking off his jumper.

Sherlock chuckled deeply, approvingly, as he plucked the final jar of fragrant honey from the table and sauntered toward his beloved doctor, letting the dressing gown fall from his shoulders into a silken puddle on the floor.

He came to a stop in front of John and nudged his knees open wider to accommodate him. Sherlock gently placed the small jar into John’s right hand.

“I think I’ll need your help with this last tasting,” he said, before sinking to his knees and laying his head on John’s thigh.

John groaned softly and threaded his free hand through Sherlock’s silken curls. “Ok, love. Whatever you want. What do you need me to do?”

Sherlock tilted his head and looked up at John with half-lidded eyes. He licked his lips and said slyly, “It should be perfectly easy. Just...hold still.” And with that he gathered a dipperful of honey from the final jar in John’s hand.

Both of them watched, rapt, as drop after syrupy drop began to fall onto the head of John’s cock and roll down his thick shaft, the scent of lavender swirling up to envelop them. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath huffing over his cock as he leaned down to sample the honey directly from John’s skin. He lapped and licked and sucked, from the base of John’s cock to the full, ruddy head.

“Oh God,” John moaned. “Don’t stop, love. Please.”

He couldn’t wait to feel that sinful mouth wrap around him, pull him in deeply. He chanced a look downward just as Sherlock swallowed his cock to the hilt. John heard (and _felt_ ) a deep, rumbling groan as the tip of his prick touched the back of Sherlock’s throat. He felt his lover swallow, and reached down to caress the Adam’s apple of that long, pale throat with his thumb. Sherlock shuddered at John’s touch and continued to swirl his tongue around John’s cock as he sucked, harder and faster, wanting to bring John off in honey-scented bliss.

John felt his orgasm gathering at the base of his cock, balls drawing up tightly, shaft thickening in Sherlock’s mouth. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back to rest against the chair. One hand moved to cup the back of Sherlock’s head gently, not pushing, just resting there, feeling his detective move up and down his shaft while the other absentmindedly clutched the little jar of honey.  

He was so focused on the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue wiggling against his frenulum and the sweet suction just on the head of his cock that John missed Sherlock dipping two of his fingers into the jar of honey forgotten in his own palm. His eyes, deep blue nearly eclipsed by black, flew open when Sherlock pressed his two honey-slicked fingers into John’s mouth. Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock long enough to roughly whisper, “Suck.” before falling back onto John with a moan.

At the first saccharine taste of honey on Sherlock’s slender fingers, John was lost. Images of his love exploded in his mind and swept him into passionate oblivion- Sherlock laid out in a field of lavender, inky curls studded with leaves and petals, miles of smooth pale skin dappled by late afternoon sunlight.

John groaned as he came deeply down Sherlock’s throat, still sucking hard on his lover’s fingers, savouring each drop of honey turned desire. He felt Sherlock’s bobbing head begin to lose its rhythm, his broad shoulders hitching as he broke away, gasping after taking the last beads of come John had to give.

Sherlock looked absolutely wrecked- his pupils blown wide, lips puffy and red, the corners of his mouth still dotted with honey, curls in disarray, cock nearly flush against his belly, panting from the need to come. John hurriedly deposited the honey jar on the side table, hauled his lover up into his lap and kissed him hard, tongue giving the fruity flavour of summer honey back to Sherlock. He gripped Sherlock’s straining cock and touched him light and fast, just as he knew Sherlock preferred. Five sweet strokes along the entire length of Sherlock’s shaft, a gentle twist at the head, and he was undone, striping John’s chest with thick ropes of come, head thrown back as he called out, “John!”

\-----------------------------------------

“John? John! JOHN!”

He was abruptly brought out of his erotic reverie by Sherlock calling out to him. It clearly wasn’t the first time he’d spoken.

“Hmmm?” John slowly turned to face Sherlock, who had knelt down next to the victim’s kitchen table. He was looking at John with narrowed eyes, deductions clearly running through that great brain of his.

 _Oh shit,_ John thought. _He knows. Of course he does._

Without warning, Sherlock stood up and said disdainfully, “Lestrade. You know better than to call me out for anything less than a six! Obviously this was a suicide made to look like murder by a well meaning but incredibly idiotic friend who didn’t want anyone to think poorly about his mate. John and I are done here. I think even your lot can figure out the rest without us.”

With that, Sherlock took John by the elbow and hastily led him out the door and around the corner to the main road to hail a cab. After they were safely ensconced in the backseat John risked a chagrined look over at Sherlock, expecting to see him vexed at John’s inappropriate crime scene behavior. Instead he found Sherlock staring directly at him, a sexy smirk on his lips. John couldn’t stop his lusty gaze, as the tip of Sherlock’s pink tongue darted out to sweep across his rosy top lip.

“I believe we were unfairly interrupted today, John. Don’t you think?”

Sherlock brought his thumb up to his mouth and brushed it across that criminal bottom lip. “Of course you do. It was written all over your face at the victim’s flat. I could hardly finish my deductions to Lestrade for wanting to drop to my knees right on the bloodstained linoleum.”

He tipped his head and looked up at John through dark lashes. “A bit not good, I know. But true all the same. ”

Oh. _Oh!_

John wasn’t in trouble for his actions at the crime scene. At least, not in the way he _thought_ he would be. This kind of trouble, the kind that involved satisfying his lover and enjoying his lovely mouth, looked to be a much better prospect. Apparently John was to be rewarded for his momentary indiscretion. Who knew? It could have gone either way, really.

But for that mouth? It was worth the risk. And John would take it every time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr!](https://bakingsherlycakes.tumblr.com/)


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